Make Me a Lion
by Freelance Fanfictioner
Summary: At a time when all seems lost, Tyrion comes to the rescue and Sansa learns a different meaning to the words "A Lannister pays his debts". Tyrion really is a bigger man than he seems, and her captivity at the Vale makes her appreciate this.
1. Alayne

_A/N: It often happens that I sigh with relief and say, "this story has finally stopped haunting me", only to have the characters return unexpectedly weeks or months later. I see them walk, I hear them speak, I catch their facial expressions, and I'm obliged to sit down and continue writing the story._

Alayne looked doubtfully at the note that was conveyed to her by the maid. An evening invitation to her father's solar; there was nothing suspicious in it, and yet, his invitations have seldom been so formal. He said they were to have a cup of wine together and talk over a certain matter. Well, whatever she thought of it, she could hardly refuse. But what should she wear? She settled for a dress of dark brown velvet, embroidered in green thread. It went well with her chestnut hair. Her neck and ears were unadorned, and the whiteness of her throat made a very pretty contrast indeed against the dark of the fabric.

She found Littlefinger in his solar, alone. A good fire was lit there, and a flagon of Arbor red, along with two goblets and a plate of fruit, apples and pears and oranges, was set upon the table. Upon seeing her, he rose. "My lord father," she made a curtsey.

"Alayne, my sweet." Petyr looked to be in high spirits. Although he obviously hasn't touched the wine yet, his eyes glowed, and there was color in his cheeks. His features were unusually animated. "Come closer, and pour for us both, if you would be so kind. I have sent the servants away. I have something to say to you that is for your ears and mine alone."

Dutifully, Alayne approached and filled the two goblets to the brim. Littlefinger took a sip from his, and eyed her over the rim of his cup. "Drink," he pressed her with an affectionate smile, "drink, my sweet daughter, for this is an occasion which deserves to be toasted."

"What occasion, my lord father?" Alayne didn't understand, but drank all the same. The wine was fine and sweet, but very strong, and her goblet was still almost full when she replaced it on the table.

"I bring glad tidings to you, sweetling," he said, "I have had a bird from King's Landing today. It appears that someone has brought a gift for Queen Cersei and the little king."

"A gift?" Alayne repeated uncertainly. "What gift?"

"A sack. A sack with a head in it; a rather overlarge, misshapen, scarred, noseless head."

Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widened. "You don't mean - I - "

"Fear not, my lovely daughter," Littlefinger smiled and lifted his goblet again. "I hardly think you will be expected to wear mourning for the Imp, even when your true identity is finally revealed. Which, now that all we have to do is ascertain your widowhood, will not take long."

Alayne didn't know what to feel. _Sansa_, she told herself. _I will soon be able to be Sansa Stark again. _But Sansa Stark was a silly little girl she had left behind when she fled King's Landing. She wasn't sure she'd want to be _her_ again. Being a bastard of obscure birth was easier, safer. Less was expected of a bastard, and her secrets were more conveniently kept. As for Tyrion... they killed him, she thought with a jolt._ They killed him as they would have no doubt killed me._ Littlefinger told her not to mourn for the Imp, but she had not wanted him dead. _He was kind to me_. _He could have taken me, he was supposed to have taken me, but he chose not to, even though Lord Tywin was wroth with him. _

"Well," Petyr's eyes twinkled, "we shall drink to this, my daughter, shall we not? We will, of course, make perfectly sure the dwarf is dead, but I am certain there is no mistake. From there, it will be a close and swift road to the announcement of your betrothal, your marriage to the Young Falcon, and your gathering the armies of the Vale to recapture Winterfell. This is a most generous gift your father made you, is it not?"

To this Sansa could not object. Following Littlefinger's example, she drank deep. The wine made her head swim. "Drain your cup," he urged with a smile. She obeyed. "Does not your father merit an affectionate kiss for all he has done for you, my dear?" he asked slyly.

She could hardly refuse, so she approached Littlefinger and kissed him on the cheek, then quickly withdrew. But he caught her face and kissed her full on the lips, long and deep. She dared not move, dared not flinch away, so she just stood there, still as a statue, until he finally released her. Her face was burning, and her heart was thumping frantically like a caged bird. _I mustn't speak now. I mustn't speak until I compose myself. _"My lord father, I..."

"This game is at an end, sweetling," Littlefinger smiled coyly, but there was danger in his voice. "Soon, the truth of your birth will be revealed. Soon, you will be again Sansa Stark, the beautiful daughter of Lord Eddard, not mine." He poured another cup for them both. "Drink," he commanded, and Sansa obeyed.

This time, her legs grew even more wobbly, and she could put up even less resistance when Petyr reached for her lips again. When his fingers traced the lacings of her bodice, however, she had recalled herself, despite the shifting, delirious curtain that seemed to be all around her. She had never drunk so much wine at once. Even so, she was able to catch his hand with a surprisingly firm move of her wrist. "My lord, I beg you, no... you... you shouldn't. I am to marry Harrold Hardyng, you said so yourself, I..."

_"_Ah, but my dear," Littlefinger appeared amused. "When you are acknowledged as Sansa Stark, it will be known that you are a widow, not a maid. No one will be aware that the Imp never touched you - and even if you told them, would they believe? No, our Harry will know he is taking a lady who has been deprived of her flower, but fear not. I hear he likes his women broken in."

"I... my lord, you cannot... you are good to me, I know you will not force me..."

"_Force_ you?" when Littlefinger got angry, there was a lot more grey than green in his eyes, and they also appeared cold. Cold as ice. Cold as steel. Those could have been Stark eyes, if they weren't so treacherous. "Is that your gratitude? I saved your life, I am restoring to you all you held dear, I am elevating you beyond your highest ambition... is it so outrageous to expect a little affection in return?"

"I am your daughter," Sansa said pleadingly, "I am Alayne, your maiden daughter, you said I must always be Alayne, you said -"

"Very well," Littlefinger took a step away from her. "You can either be Alayne, a pretty but baseborn maid, a nobody - or you can be Sansa Stark, a woman who has allowed herself to grow, mature, to love the only one who had ever truly loved her. I cannot wed you myself, Sansa. I will ever be too lowborn for a Stark of Winterfell, but you can still give me the gift of your innocence."

"As my mother had?" Sansa asked, suddenly emboldened.

"No," sighed Littlefinger, "no, my lady, I'm afraid that was a lie, a fancy of mine. Cat was too proud, I never had her. But it makes no difference now. Her spirit lives on in you; you are as lovely as your mother had ever been, and I... I am helpless before you."

A lie, thought Sansa. A lie he told the Lady Lysa – but she was cleverer than her aunt, she hoped. _I am helpless before you, not the other way around. _"In the name of gods..." she began, but Petyr stopped her with a gesture of the hand.

_"_I cannot abide piteous bleating, I'm afraid. I will give you leave to ponder all I have told you tonight, and consider your choices. Be sure to decide wisely. I shall call someone to escort you to your chambers... Alayne."

_"_There is no need to, lord father," she said, relieved, "it is but a short way from here."

She hastened to leave, but her relief was not of lasting nature. It was obvious Littlefinger has planned this thoroughly, trusting to gain what he wanted with the joint effect of wine, and the mixture of gratitude and duty she was supposed to be feeling towards him. She knew he would not relent. He was not a man to give up his object of desire. In a day, a week, a month, he would try again - and she was in his hands, his pawn, his plaything, his prisoner. Before long, he would find something else to blackmail her with. Until he'd had his way.

Well, at any rate, she would sleep now, and perhaps things would look a little different in the moment. Perhaps she would think of something. Perhaps -

But then all her musings were cut off, for the moment she opened the door to her chamber and stepped within, a powerful hand clasped over her mouth, and a rough voice she didn't know said, "quiet, m'lady."

Sansa's eyes widened in horror. She struggled, but in vain; her captor was too strong, and easily twisted her arms behind her back one-handed. He wasn't hurting her, exactly, but he held her firmly, and she could neither move, nor speak, nor do anything to alert anyone of her plight. "Now," the voice continued, "I mean you no harm, but we need to talk. Do you promise not to scream if I release you?"

Sansa nodded fervently. Of course, she had not the least notion of keeping that promise. The man seemed to realise it, for as soon as let her go, he hastened to say, "before you wake the whole castle, m'lady, and get me killed, hear this - I come with a message from your husband."

Sansa froze in shock, but didn't scream and didn't run, and the stranger, it appeared, took it for an encouraging sign. He lit a candle, and she saw he had a broad, homely face, a stout build, and the air of a hedge knight. "Who are you?" she blurted out. "How did you get there?"

"I am Sir Donal Waters," he said, "but my name is of no significance, m'lady, nor how I got here - which cost me quite a bit of trouble. Your lord, though, he was gracious enough to repay my efforts in gold, and promised me more if I bring you to him."

"I..." Sansa didn't know what to say. Her mind was all confusion. _Your lord?_ "My husband is dead. I was told so not an hour ago."

Sir Donal snorted. "Dead? Not in seven hells, pardon me, m'lady. Lord Tyrion is waiting for you some way down this thrice-damned mountain, and if you come to him now, you can leave this place forever... if that is your wish."

Sansa said nothing. A trick, she told herself. This is a trick of Littlefinger; he is testing her loyalty. But Sir Donal appeared to be a shrewd man. "I know it's hard to believe," he said, "here." He pulled a roll of parchment from inside his cloak, and handed it to her. Sansa's eyes skimmed over it; that it was Tyrion's handwriting, she could not admit of a doubt. She had seen him at work too often. It was a message from him, to her... and once she had adjusted to the thought, she could properly attend to what he had written.

The letter was very straightforward. Somehow, he had managed to escape King's Landing, where he was awaiting his trial for the murder of King Joffrey. In an equally mysterious way, he found out of her being gone to the Vale with Littlefinger, and, he hinted, he had a notion or two of the Lord Protector's true intentions towards her. Undertaking no small risk, he had arrived at the Vale himself, and proposed to carry her away to safety at once. All she had to do was give her consent, and the man who he had managed to get into the Eyrie, Sir Donal Waters, would do the rest.

Sansa's heart pounded in her throat. The message appeared to be genuine, but still - would she really be saving herself if she goes with Tyrion? Was he better than Littlefinger? Would not he attempt to use her the same way? _He could have done it before, _she told herself. He was expected to have done it before, and he didn't. But why? Why did he come for her?

"Why did he come for me?" she asked Sir Donal.

"Your lord expected you would ask that," he replied, "to that, he told me, I was to tell you that a Lannister always pays his debts."

This was a dubious message at best, but Sansa was suddenly feeling bold. _Tyrion cannot mean to kill me,_ she told herself. _As for the rest, he can do no worse by me than Littlefinger. _"I will do it," she said, "I will go with you, Sir Donal. When might we set out?"

"At once," said the knight.


	2. Tyrion

"Seven bloody hells," Bronn swore, "climbing up this fucking mountain at the dead of night? I'm beginning to regret going into your service again, Imp."

"_Lord_ Imp, if you please," Tyrion said dryly. A man like Bronn had his uses along a perilous journey, but the sellsword has been growing too insolent by far since gaining knighthood and his Stokeworth bride. "And remember the ample reward you have been promised once I sail off. I hope you have never had reason to blame me for being niggardly." _Although I know I can be as generous as Lucan the Lavish, and it won't prevent you from selling me back to my sweet sister for a clipped copper. _

"The Others can bugger your reward if I'm going to break my neck here," said Bronn. "I could have been snug and warm at Stokeworth, in my wife's bed. And I told you it was madness to send Waters alone."

"One man is easier to conceal than a dozen. We cannot overpower the entire garrison of the Eyrie; our hope lies in stealth, not strength."

"You put too much faith in that bastard, mark my word. He is probably being pushed into one of those sky cells as we speak. He must have scared the girl out of her wits, so that she made a racket and woke the whole castle. Or else, she refused to come, which is even more likely. It's a hard choice between you and Littlefinger, but I'd still prefer the latter."

"She may refuse to come," Tyrion shrugged, "I had to try."

"Why, though?" Bronn looked at him curiously. "What's it to you if Littlefinger sticks it up her slit? _You_ never did that anyway, as far as I know."

_I wouldn't expect you to understand. Honor means nothing to you, after all. I'm not even certain it still means anything to me. "_Don't speak of what you don't know, Bronn."

_"_Oh, come," Bronn snorted, "all the guards in the Red Keep knew your pretty little wife is still a maid."

_"_She can stay a maid as far as I am concerned," snapped Tyrion, "I have reasons of my own for coming here."

_"_Well, they had bloody better be good reasons, because you're risking more than what the little wench is worth."

_"_Watch your mouth, Bronn," Tyrion said warningly, "it's my lady wife you're talking about."

Footsteps were heard - of two pairs of feet, if Tyrion could be a sound judge, and a few moments later, Ser Donal and Sansa appeared before him in a patch of moonlight.

"Your lady's here, m'lord," said Waters with a swagger.

"My lord," Sansa said. He had forgotten how gentle her voice was, and how she always minded her manners no matter what. _Courtesy is a lady's armor. _"I was... exceedingly surprised to get your message. I was told you were..."

"Dead? For all intents and purposes, I am. I hope Ser Donal did not give you too much of a fright, Sansa," said Tyrion, "it was out of my power to warn you, or to make this less sudden."

This was the first time they have spoken to each other since Joffrey's wedding feast. Last time he was so close to her, they were sitting behind a table together, immune to the amusement of jousters and dancing bears. Now they were both fugitives, sought for a murder neither of them – he thought he could be as certain on Sansa's behalf as on his own – committed. He looked at his wife intently, trying to read her expression. Was she looking fearful? Reluctant? Uncertain? Was he truly doing her a favor by taking her away from here, or was he condemning her to a far worse fate?

"It is very... very good of you to come for me, my lord," she finally said, a little hesitantly. "How did you know where to find me?"

"It will suffice to say," Tyrion deliberated for a moment how much he should tell, "if Littlefinger thinks he has a friend in Varys, he is wrong. I assume he did not take you to the Vale out of sheer benevolence?" he said shrewdly.

"No, my lord. He had... certain... designs."

"I have no doubt of that. Well, whatever his designs might have been, he will be forced to relinquish them, for we shall be going away this moment. If it please you," he added. "It is still not too late to turn back, if you would prefer that."

Sansa's eyes met his - blue, guileless, innocent eyes. He saw suspicion in them, but also defiance. "I would not, my lord." _She doesn't trust me, and who can blame her? But I expect she would take any chance to get away from our dear friend Lord Baelish._ I

"Good. It would have been a shame to have taken so much trouble in vain. We had better hurry, then. Littlefinger, it turns out, is more dangerous than he seems. Claws hidden in soft cat's paws are no less sharp." _And I have underestimated him far too long. _

"He... he had promised to... take me home," Sansa whispered, casting her eyes down.

"Well, I will make no such promise," Tyrion said briskly, but not unkindly, "even if Winterfell was untouched by war, I couldn't have hoped to convey you there. But I can, and will, take you to safety."

"How shall we go on, then, my lord?"

"We'll start by coming down this thrice-damned mountain. It's a dangerous enough business even while there's daylight, but I'm afraid we have no choice but to do it now. Hopefully, we have a few hours before your disappearance is taken notice of. My man Bronn knows some paths which the Eyrie men are unfamiliar with, and a little later down the road we'll come to an inn whose landlord will keep his mouth shut if he knows what's good for him. Later, we'll be making for across the sea. I don't think we will be caught," he added, "but I should still warn you that if the queen's men find us, it will mean your pretty head rolls together with mine."

"I understand," it seemed that she swallowed with difficulty, but her resolution was unwavering. "My lord, this is all very - very handsome of you - I don't know how I will ever be able to repay - "

"It will suffice if you acknowledge that I am no enemy of yours, Sansa," said Tyrion, "and never have been. I wanted to convey you safely to your lady mother, in exchange for my brother. It pains me to think of all the bloodshed that could have been prevented if the plan had been acted upon. But now, I'm afraid, all I can do is get you away from Littlefinger. The journey won't be easy, though," he warned, "you must know that."

She nodded. "I am ready, my lord."


	3. The escape

A/N: Tyrion Lannister is my favorite character in ASoIaF – he is brave, loyal, a seeker of justice, and so witty one never gets bored with him. And naturally, I think it would be really cool if he is rewarded for all his sufferings with the love of gentle, beautiful and tender-hearted Sansa. This story takes place after Sansa is taken to the Vale by Petyr Baelish, shortly following SoS.

"Not too long now, my lady," her husband said reassuringly.

She could barely manage a nod, shaking violently and drawing her cloak tighter around herself. Her mind was yet incapable of handling it all – being saved from the Vale where she had been, she realized, a prisoner all along, at Littlefinger's disposal; Tyrion's equally miraculous flight from captivity and sudden reappearance; a journey of escape so smooth and quiet it must have been thoroughly and genially planned. But what surprised her most was that he came for her. Why did he do that? There was no Winterfell anymore. Poorer than a pauper, Sansa had nothing. What made him risk his life, then? A vague sense of duty to a woman who was never really his wife?

She shuddered as she thought of the fate he saved her from. Soon, she would have become Littlefinger's mistress, as he had planned all along, from the moment his greedy eyes beheld her blossoming young beauty. She felt immense relief, knowing they were getting farther and farther away from him. She wished the horses could go even faster.

"Your lord father must have placed quite a prize on your head, my lord," ventured Sansa.

Tyrion looked up at her in surprise. An actual bold statement from his meek wife? True, she had grown up a lot in their time apart. Her features became more womanly, the soft curve of her breast more ample… he averted his eyes from her. He knew his journey towards safety and freedom would have been much easier without her. On this matter, though, he felt he had little choice.

"I hardly think my lord father could do anything of the sort," he said, trying to appear indifferent, "after I left a crossbow arrow in his bowels."

Sansa was shocked, but not as much as she would have been before she left King's Landing. She felt an odd sense of savage triumph.

"You… you killed your father, my lord?" she asked in a faltering voice.

"As you can surmise," Tyrion said briskly, "I'm now an irrevocable outcast. I would have topped it off nicely by dealing with my sweet brother and sister, too – but you can't have everything in life."

Sansa was relieved when the seemingly endless ride came to a halt and they found, in a small, obviously prepared especially for them, snug and warm inn all the comforts she could wish for: a blazing fire in the grate, a hot bath, fresh robes, and a promise of super, which she was supposed to take with her husband, Bronn, and the rest of his people downstairs.

"I hope this dress fits you tolerably well, my lady," said Tyrion while they were quenching their hunger with bread, cheese, apples, boiled eggs, cold meat and hot spiced wine, "I had no way to warn you about our plan of removing you from the Vale, so I had these clothes and shoes prepared for you, in place of those you'd be leaving behind in the Eyrie."

"It was very thoughtful of you, my lord," she said, burying her eyes in her plate, so as not to meet his mismatches ones. "Coming here to take me with you must have cost you a lot of time and risk."

She voiced his very thoughts. Tyrion grinned. "A Lannister pays his debts," he said.

Sansa flinched, and she knew he noticed it. A Lannister. But what right does she have to feel displeased, if his excessive feeling of marital duty meant saving her from the clutches of Littlefinger?

"Tomorrow, we will be already at sea," said Tyrion, pouring them both more wine, "on our way to the Free Cities. I have gold, I have connection there. We'll be quite comfortable. And," he added after a brief pause, "there is something else – something that will gladden your heart, my lady."

He paused again. "I received intelligence that your sister Arya is in the Free Cities too, alive and well. I will do my best to find her once we are there. And I wrote to your brother, Jon Snow, at the Wall, telling him what we are up to. Now, don't look at me like that, Sansa. He is a bastard, but he has your father's blood, which is not to be disregarded now you have lost almost all your kin."

You bloody fool, Tyrion told himself as he saw her eyes well up with tears. She is going to cry, of course. Is this going to be like King's Landing all over again, him lying in the darkness of their bedchamber, listening to her quiet tears, not daring to put a comforting hand on her shoulder?

Sansa, however, composed herself quite soon. "Arya, alive. Thank you, my lord. This is more than I could have hoped for. I thought she was lost for sure. And… are you certain it was safe to send a message to the Wall?"

"I took every precaution I could think of. I knew Jon was not ignorant of what has been going on all over the Seven Kingdoms, and was sure he would be concerned about you. Once I had the opportunity, I thought it was basic decency to let him know. I consider him a friend."

Finally, the dinner was over, and they were left alone in the room that was given to them for a bedchamber – a warm, cheery room, with a merry fire in the grate. The linens were no match for the silky bedcovers in her chamber at the Eyrie, let alone King's Landing, but the bed was wide, with large soft pillows and a heap of warm blankets that gave off a smell of clean linen.

Sansa felt a sense of satisfaction creep over her. She was away from the Vale, well-fed, in a warm bed, and far beyond the reach of Littlefinger. But there was awkwardness too, after sleeping alone for so long.

"There is but one bed," Tyrion said pointedly, to dispel whatever suspicions she might be having concerning his intentions, "but it's roomy enough for both of us, and there are blankets aplenty."

And without further ado, he kicked off his boots, shook off his cloak, and climbed in, drawing a feather blanket over his head.

Later, Tyrion woke from his soft slumber. For a moment he wondered what could have woken him up, exhausted as he was after two days or riding almost non-stop, then realized with a sinking feeling that his lady wife was crying her heart out. Oh no, he told himself, here we go again.

He turned towards her, put a hand on her arm, and spoke, trying to sound reassuring:

"Sansa, I understand. Your losses are immeasurable – your loved ones, your home, all you ever knew, all that ever made you feel safe… but please, do try and get some rest. Tomorrow will be a long and difficult day." As the suppressed sobs didn't stop, merely became more stifled, he went on. "Perhaps you would be more comfortable if I got up and took a walk – perhaps some time alone could do you good –"

Sansa sat up and swept at her eyes with the back of her hand. The tears clinging to her long eyelashes were visible even in the light of the single candle that was still burning. To his surprise, Tyrion felt a soft hand reach and squeeze his. She never did that before.

"My lord," she said, "in all the time I spent at the Vale, I thought there might not come a day when I can properly thank you."

Tyrion opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it.

"From the start of our marriage," continued Sansa, "which, I know, was not planned or desired by you, I have seen from you nothing but kindness and patience. From the very beginning – you shielding me from the mockery of the rest of your family; your concern for my comfort and happiness; now you, for no other reason but duty, risking your life to bring me to safety –"

"I have sworn to protect you, Sansa," he interjected, "on the day when I wrapped the cloak of house Lannister around your shoulders."

He saw her eyes swim with tears again, and cursed himself for dragging house Lannister into this.

"I should have knelt beside you that day," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, "I've been terribly stubborn, and caused you to make a fool of yourself in front of everyone."

For a moment, he caught the sweet fragrance of her hair – a scent he had tried to block out of his mind and senses since their first night together, when she stepped out of her smallclothes and he saw fear and revulsion in her eyes.

"It doesn't matter, Sansa," he said, speaking lightly, but she shook her head.

"Don't try to fool me, my lord. I know it mattered – say you forgive me, if you can, but don't tell me it meant nothing."

"It certainly didn't matter enough for you to dwell on it now. Of all the slights I received in my life, that was a minor one – and of course, I gladly forgive you, my lady," he added, "now, how about some sleep?"

Sansa, however, showed no inclination of doing so. She propped herself up on a pillow and spoke again:

"At our wedding, Ser Garlan told me you are a bigger man, and would make a better husband, than I think. He was right. You have been as good a husband as any woman could wish for – and far better than I could have hoped for, that's for sure. I have done nothing to be deserving of this, my lord. But I want things to change from this day on. I want you to have my maidenhood tonight."

Her voice was so quiet and shaky that Tyrion thought he had misheard. One look at her face, though, was enough to make him sure of what she meant.

He let out a little laugh and said, trying not to sound bitter:

"Gods be good, Sansa. You don't have to do this. I know you don't want to – you could never want _me_." _What woman would? What woman ever did?_

"But it is my right," she insisted, "we have been married nearly a year, and I'm still a maiden. I am within my right to demand my claim as your wife… unless you… you don't want me anymore," she finished uncertainly.

Doesn't want her?.. The burning shame he felt for desiring her in the face of her deep grief and obvious, cold indifference!.. He looked at her again, carefully studying her features. There was no sudden passion on her part, that's for sure, and he would be a fool to expect her to be somehow woken to his charms. What was etched in her face was defiance and determination. But there was no disgust, and no pity, for which he was grateful. Her hand reached towards his again, and it was firm and warm.

"My lord – Tyrion," for the first time, she said his name out of her own volition, "you are my husband. My good, kind, brave husband. I want to try. I thought you were willing to try too, on the night when we wed – but perhaps you have changed your mind?"

He didn't answer. There was no need to. His eyes, his body – everything betrayed what he felt, a longing hidden too deeply and too long to continue suppressing. With a gesture of the defiance he saw in her eyes, Sansa pulled up and over her head the simple woolen nightgown he prepared for her, and lay on her back, waiting, her eyes closed. Her arms and legs were covered with goosebumps, but she made no move to cover herself.

"I don't really know what to do," she said, "you will have to show me."

"Sansa," her husband said softly, "open your eyes. Look at me."

She dutifully obeyed. She sat up and studied the face of the little man in front of her – the ugly, scarred, malformed face, the mismatched eyes, the coarse beard; he was no handsomer than on the night they were left alone in their bedchamber for the first time, nor any bit less of a Lannister – but they are seeking his head now just as they are seeking mine, she thought, Queen Cersei and her vultures. He saved me from beating, she thought further, and bedding, and now from Littlefinger, without expecting anything in return, without even claiming what was rightfully his. Hesitantly, she cupped his cheek and leaned forward to kiss him.

Tyrion's head was swimming as he buried his fingers in her soft auburn curls, pressing her close to him, drinking deeply from the sweet mouth he felt against his scarred lips. There was an intoxicating ache in his heart and his groin, an intense urgency like he never felt before; he drank just enough wine at dinner, he hasn't had a woman – any woman – for many months, since Shae's betrayal, and he had wanted Sansa since the day of their wedding – she was so beautiful now, lovelier even than she was then, and as willing as she was ever like to come to him. As he broke off the kiss to pull his undershirt over his head, Sansa blew out the candle, so that their room was lit only by silver stripes of moonlight.

She was stunning even in this dim, cold light, though, her skin smooth like cream and soft as velvet. He kissed her warm slender neck and beautiful shoulders, and the delicate curve of her breast, and her belly and thighs and the sweet softness between them – until she grew warm, then hot; until she breathed heavily and gasped, and finally moaned and shuddered and arched her back, her fingernails digging into the bedcovers. Then he climbed atop her and heard a sharp intake of breath as he took her maidenhood, feeling a strange mixture of lust and tenderness and sorrow.

Afterwards, they lay in silence for several minutes; he didn't dare to look at his wife, yet felt he ought to say something. There was blood on the sheets that were now tangled around them.

"I must have hurt you," he said quietly. To his relief, she looked in no distress.

"Not too much," she assured him, "I was a maiden, and maidens bleed. Surely my lord knows that."

How would he know? He had no maidens, only whores; girls in brothels and serving wenches and camp followers. He looked at her, sweet and innocent, touched by no man but him, gentle-born and so lovely – his wife. Part of him wanted her to understand. Part of him just wanted to weep.

"This is the first time I'm in bed with a woman without being expected to give her gold or silver, silks or jewels; the first time a woman came to me – not out of desire, I know; no, be quiet, Sansa; but at least out of gratitude and respect, and not for love of coin. I hope I have your trust, my lady, and maybe with time I will gain a little affection."

She didn't answer at once, but he saw a wide smile spreading across her face. Was this such a ridiculous notion?

"Oh, Tyrion," she sighed, grinning openly for the first time since he knew her, "I'm pretty, am I not? But do you realize you are the only man who has ever wanted me without thinking of Winterfell?"

He did think of that once, as a matter of fact, but the hope was long gone now, together with Winterfell. He didn't care, though; not when she put her arms around him and he rested his head on her soft shoulder, dizzy from the scent of her skin. She was warm and soft and yielding, and though he was naked as his name day, he saw no revulsion in her eyes now. Her body subtly told him that his touch had not been unpleasant – which was as much as he could hope for at the moment. He already started to drift off when he heard her say:

"My lord husband, may I see Jon's letter?"


	4. The Free Cities

He sat and watched her as she read, cross-legged and oblivious of her nudity, her hair a shock of auburn waves; he saw her eyes turn warm and moist as they traced the words he had already remembered by heart.

_"… when I heard of your marriage to my sister Sansa, I must confess it had come as a shock. Sansa had been betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon for long, and when you visited the Wall, you never hinted even at a possibility of a match between my sister and yourself. _

_Since this is a private letter which, I know, will never be shown to anyone else, I will venture as far as to say that this wedding was probably planned in the interest of the crown – as you subtly hinted in the message you sent to me. But be that as it may, at least now I know one of my sisters is safe – your honor will not allow you to let any harm befall Sansa as long as you live, and for this, I am thankful. _

_I know the marriage must have been contrary to Sansa's disposition, unless she has changed much since she left Winterfell – but remembering her age, and the monstrosities committed by your royal nephew, I thank the gods it's you who were chosen as her husband – from all the men in King's Landing, you are probably the only one who would truly care for her happiness. I, at this distant and dangerous border of the realm, can do very little. _

_I remain yours truly, and awaiting more news from you,_

_Jon Snow of the Night Watch."_

Sansa's eyes sparkled with tears as she read this. She never cared much about Jon Snow – she saw it almost as a personal insult that her father should have a bastard son. Now, however, Jon was the only one who remained of her brothers. Robb and Bran and Rickon were gone, and Jon and Arya far beyond her reach, yet they were dearer to her than ever, and the hope of seeing them someday warmed her heart.

"This letter suggests you've been in contact for a while," she said, "how long have you been corresponding with Jon?"

"We have been exchanging ravens on and off since I visited the Wall," replied Tyrion, "Jon Snow cares for you and Arya more than you can imagine, Sansa."

He chose not to show her the other, more recent note he received from the bastard boy, which was short and hastily scribbled, and said:

_"I received tidings of Joffrey's death. Flee and keep Sansa safe. Take her far away. Wildlings are creeping down from the north. Stannis and his Red Priestess have taken over. Winter is coming."_

"I have always underappreciated Jon," Sansa said regretfully, "who knows if I ever have a chance to say this to him in person?"

"Someday, I'd like to see the Wall again," replied Tyrion, "If I can, I will take you there, my lady, and you will be able to see your brother. Now that no one remains in the male line of house Stark, and old rules seem to be bent left, right and center, in times of peace perhaps the name of Stark can be bestowed on Jon. Winterfell is lost forever in its splendor, I'm afraid, but Jon can claim lands, build and marry, if this is his wish – though the Night Watch would be at a great loss if that happens."

"Jon would never do that," Sansa shook her head, "he swore a solemn oath to the Watch. He is not a man to betray his word."

"No," agreed Tyrion, after a moment of contemplation, "he is not."

For the first time, Sansa pulled the blankets over them both to share. He breathed in the clean, fresh fragrance of her skin. He would never want, or take, another woman after being in the arms of this beautiful girl, he knew. His wife, he thought. No hiding, no guilt, no shame. The same bed, openly, every night. Honor and trust and maybe – just maybe – even a little affection.

"What if Queen Cersei finds us?" he suddenly heard her quiet, small voice.

"Then we're both as good as dead," he murmured into the soft curve of her shoulder, "but let's try our best not to give her that pleasure, Sansa."

Their sail to the Free Cities was smooth enough, and did not lack comforts. Tyrion bought them passage on a ship called "Lady Ermesande", where they were given use of a small, snug cabin. There was plenty of time to talk, and all of a sudden he found himself listening to stories of his wife's childhood at Winterfell, her direwolf Lady, her mother and her father; stories of long walks and hunting trips and steam fountains, which left the walls of Winterfell warm even when frost set in. He, in his turn, told her of his play with Jaime at Casterly Rock when they were boys, though now he could hardly suppress a spasm of suffering when he mentioned his brother's name. He felt she was expecting to hear more of his first marriage, too, but he couldn't tell her yet, and wondered whether he ever will, or even if he ought to.

Sansa reached out to the bowl of fruit beside her and plucked a grape. Comfortably seated on a low, silk-padded bench with soft cushions, she lazily gazed through the large window to the garden outside.

The city of Volantis was hot and smelly, noisy and messy, but none of it was felt here, in the spacious hall of the house her husband had rented. Refreshing scents were wafting in from the flowering garden ensconced by high walls.

Sansa was wearing a gown in ivory silk, embroidered with blue; she sat barefoot, her sandals of fine leather on the floor beside her bench, one foot probing the coolness of the marble floor. Her hair was brushed and curled, and held back by a ribbon of blue velvet. Two serving boys stood beside her, making the still air circulate by enormous fans.

Her lord husband stationed them in this lovely marble villa, surrounded by a harmony of fruit trees, flowers, fountains and shady groves. He had given her skilled serving girls and a litter with embroidered curtains, gowns of silk and velvet and a wealth of lace, and jewels; he supplied her with books and materials for needlework, gave her two frisky kittens to amuse her, and sent for a harp which Sansa had gingerly tried, after a long time of neglecting her music.

It was a life of luxury, more comfortable by far than what she had left behind at the Vale. Yet this wasn't the main change. It seemed to Sansa that only now she understood what her flowering truly meant.

How could it be right? By the light of day, there was no sign of attraction between them, no hint of what had happened the night before. Yet when night fell again, there was no mistaking the obvious language of her body. What went on in their bed was sweet, sweeter than she could ever have imagined on her miserable wedding day. This duality was almost mind-boggling.

Her husband had been right – she gave herself to him for the first time out of a certain mix of gratitude and duty. But he was always kind to her, always patient, and her respect for him grew day by day. She highly esteemed his wit, his unboastful bravery and his sense of justice. They shared blankets every night. It's strange, she thought. I must be honest with myself; I still think he is the ugliest man I ever saw, yet I do not dislike his touch. Abed, he was gentle, passionate, and oh, quite skilled. She flushed when she recalled how he made her moan the night before, and the hot wave that crept all over her body.

"I feel almost guilty," Tyrion confessed one night, as they lay in a tangle of bedcovers, "almost as though I have stolen something."

"But you did," smiled Sansa, "you stole me from Littlefinger."

… Her lord husband returned late that night, and climbed into bed beside her very quietly. The candles were already blown out, but Sansa, who wasn't asleep yet, propped herself up on her elbow.

"I was worried, my lord. Where have you been?"

"I'm sorry I woke you up, Sansa," he said in a very voice. "I had a meeting with one agent of mine – a very helpful fellow. Very efficient. I just got back from the local Street of Silk – "

"Street of Silk?" her voice was incredulous, "you met him in a brothel?"

"Yes, to be discreet. Where else can a man sit hooded and unsuspected of hidden motives?"

"Is it only that?" she teased, "Have you found no other attractions there?"

"I think you know the answer to that," he said.

She knew. She drew the blankets around them both and Tyrion sighed contentedly, his arm around her waist.

Much like his brother Jaime, he was never drawn to the idea of changing women every night. He was faithful to Tysha. To whores and camp followers, while they warmed his bed. To Shae…

"Is something amiss?" Sansa asked, feeling the sudden stiffness in his entire posture. "Did I say something I shouldn't have said?"

"No, sweetling," he said, "this has nothing to do with you."

"My lord," she said after a couple of silent minutes, when Tyrion was already beginning to drift away, "how long do you think we can stay here before your sister's men find us?'

He sighed. "I didn't want to mention it yet, didn't want to trouble you, but you already understand, Sansa. It's only a matter of time."

"So what are we going to do? Who will protect us?"

"We will have to travel even further," said Tyrion, "we will go to Slaver's Bay, to find the one who hates the Lannisters, Starks and Baratheons equally, but who may just accept us, hunted outcasts as we are."

Sansa held her breath. "You cannot possibly mean… Daenerys Targaryen?"


	5. The gate to heaven's door

Later at night, something pulled Tyrion out of bed. He stood by the closed window, looking through the glass down at the quiet and still gardens, at the beautiful moon that was casting its silver, transparent light over the sleeping city. He threw a look at Sansa, who was sprawled on the bed, atop the bedcovers, wearing a nightshirt of fine silk. So sweet and innocent…

He thought of the decade that passed since his unfortunate marriage to Tysha, of the terrible death he still couldn't believe he gave Shae; he thought of all the women in between, too many to remember, with similarly greedy, beautiful, evil, sinfully tempting faces and bodies.

He lowered his face into his open palms, and quite unexpectedly, felt his fingers moisten with hot, angry tears. He was mortified, but couldn't help himself. He couldn't help the acute pain that instantly made him go back in time and become a hurt child again. He forgot he was not in a brothel with a whore, but in the bedchamber he shared with his wife, and all of a sudden, he was so overcome by grief that he thought his heart would burst.

He froze as he felt Sansa's hand on his shoulder. Unheard by him, she crept out of bed and padded barefoot to where he stood, and her voice was concerned:

"What is it, my lord?"

"Nothing, Sansa. It's nothing," he hid his face from her, "we are safe for now, and that's all you need to know. Now go back to sleep."

He furiously wiped his face with his sleeve and looked at her defiantly. He didn't think he could bear seeing pity, but all that was written on her face was worry.

"Cannot you tell me what burdens your heart?" she asked. When he remained silent, she sighed, "Come back to bed, Tyrion. Please."

She took his hand and gently led him back to bed. She didn't insist on questioning him, but curled up close and put an arm around his shoulders when he turned his back on her.

What is she doing? She can't want me, he said to himself. I'm an ugly dwarf with stunted legs and a hideous noseless face, a Lannister, a kinslayer; I should give up all the dreams of love, of happiness, of friendship. This cannot be real. She simply has nowhere to go, he understood. He was an evil smile of the nature. He was given a normal man's desires, but no means to fulfill them. Humiliation washed over him as he thought what he must look like to a woman in his grotesque nakedness. He buried his face in the pillows, past caring, past pride, and choked on his silent tears until Sansa took him by the shoulders and gently made him face her. I want you to know what I feel, something inside him whispered. But he couldn't…

"I drank too much wine at dinner," he said, but she merely shook her head and took his hand in hers.

"You did not. Something grieves you, and if you don't want, or cannot tell me, you don't have to. I still wish you would, though. Remember, you told me once I can take off my armor with you? Why don't you do that, Tyrion?"

"Sansa," he said wearily, "I think I'd better leave for tonight. I can sleep on the cushioned bench in the solar."

"No," she said stubbornly, "you will remain with me."

"You grew disobedient in the time we were apart," he managed a half-smile.

"You are my good husband," she said in a low voice, "and my only friend."

She never called him a friend before, but now she realized he was that, yes – that too. She felt an ache with her heart that didn't resemble pity. No; it was sadness, she knew, an echo of what he was feeling.

He was very quiet, but when she leaned in to kiss him, he gratefully drank from her lips. _What am I doing? I should never touch her again. How annoying I must be that she is willing to bed me simply to distract me. _Yet he wondered at how quickly, and with so very little effort on her part, he was ready for her. He let out a heavy breath when her hand found its way between his legs and felt the hot hardness there. She pulled off her nightshirt and somehow, his hands were on her breasts and her skin was smooth to the touch and oh, so warm. He gasped as she pushed him down and mounted him, surprised at her boldness.

This is sweet, too sweet, he thought to himself, lost in ecstasy that was almost painful. She doesn't need to do this just to comfort me, he said to himself, nor look as though she is enjoying it all as much as I am. Soon she threw her head back and let out one last, long moan, and a few moments later he spent himself in her.

For a moment he thought that he would never move again, that he would just lie there staring at the ceiling with his mind blissfully empty. But then he couldn't resist the warm press of a soft breast against his scarred cheek. He kissed her breasts and sucked on her nipples until they hardened, then worked his way down and kissed her between the thighs too, tasting her salty wetness mingled with his own seed. In five minutes he was hard as a rock again. He didn't remember how many times he melted into her welcoming depth that night, again and again, until exhaustion took over and they fell asleep.

They woke late the next morning. "We can stay in bed today," suggested Sansa, so they didn't get dressed to breakfast – they had fruit and bread and milk brought to their bed upon a tray. The featherbed was soft, Sansa even softer. She is actually kissing me in broad daylight, he marveled.

"Tyrion," she said, "you look bleary-eyed."

"Bleary-eyed? I am exhausted," he replied, and she grinned.

"Do you still think about Shae, my lord?" asked Sansa, demonstrating to him how the wind could be knocked out of a man with the right choice of words. "I know it all," she explained quite calmly, "and I understand. I wasn't really a wife to you then. If I ever found out something of the sort now, however…" she added, half-teasing, half-serious.

"Why, I'd better be careful then," he said with a small laugh, "I killed her," the words were out of his mouth before he had time to consider whether it is wise to say them, "she gave testimony against me at the trial, and later I found her in my father's bed, naked. I strangled her and killed him with a crossbow."

He looked up at her and met her eyes, which were wide with fear. "Oh, imagine the tales that are now feeding people's minds in King's Landing. The mad Halfman, the kinslayer and Kingslayer – it seems this runs in the family, doesn't it? No, I was not the one who killed Joffrey, and I have not the remotest idea who did. But who would believe me now, after how I escaped?"

"Tyrion," she said, struggling for words and breath, "tell me everything. Please, my husband."

He didn't know what to say first, but the words just started to pour out of him like blood from an open wound. His marriage to Tysha. His father's plan together with Jaime, to make him believe she was bought. The guardsmen he gave her to. The silver stages. Living with this memory for long years, and finding out it was all a lie, a lie –

"I doubt she ever truly wanted me," he added, surprising himself with how calm he sounded, "but she was a good, simple girl. She didn't deserve this. She was under my protection, and I – I –"

"Killed your father," she squeezed his hand.

"Years of living in a lie," he whispered. Sansa drew closer to him.

"Do you think you could forget it? Put it behind you?"

"Can you forget Winterfell? No, Sansa. But I can do my best to give you a good life, a new life. We will leave soon."

"And go to Slaver's Bay?"

"To Slaver's Bay," he echoed.


	6. The Dragon Queen

A/N: I haven't read "A Dance with Dragons" yet, so undoubtedly there are plot developments I would like to comply with but am missing.

"I don't like it, Your Grace," said Ser Barristan, "whichever way you look at it."

"Neither do I," confessed Daenerys, twisting the silver fringe of her _tokar _nervously in her slender white fingers, "I do not know what to make of his coming here."

"Whatever his reasons might be, his nature is doubtful at best," said the old knight.

"Do you know him well, ser?"

"The Imp?" said Selmy with distaste, "Oh yes, Your Grace. He is a vile dwarf, malformed and ugly, and…"

"What he looks like is not of the smallest concern to me," Daenerys stopped him.

"He is a Lannister," said Ser Barristan, "they all come from the same stock. The Imp is brother to the Kingslayer, and I believe he is even more dangerous in his way, where his small stature forced him to replace strength with cunning. He has his wits about him, I'll grant him that.

"In that case," said Dany, "him coming here openly is a declaration. Had he meant to spy on me on his king's behalf, he would not have done so personally, he is too conspicuous. But I cannot figure out what he wants."

"That can be found out easily," Ser Barristan assured her, "just say the words, Your Grace, and I will send men to seize Tyrion Lannister and bring him before you so you can question him."

Daenerys shook her head. "There will be no need of that," she said, "if he made no secret of his arrival at Meereen, I can only conclude he intends to come to me himself. I will wait."

"Very well, Your Grace," Selmy inclined his head.

"In the meantime, though," added Dany, "keep an eye on his every move. He has taken a house in the city, you tell me?"

"Yes, and a very good one. A manse belonging to one of the old families. Apparently he has no lack of coin. He hired additional guards, too – for the protection of his wife, I can only assume."

The mention of the Imp's wife filled Dany with great curiosity. According to Ser Barristan's account, Tyrion Lannister was married to Sansa Stark, a young maid, as young as Dany herself had been when she was given to Khal Drogo.

There was a knock on the heavy oaken door of the audience chamber, and the homely face of Brown Ben Plumm peered in.

"Your Grace," he said, "there is a dwarf asking to be brought before you."

Daenerys and Ser Barristan exchanged glances. "I told you, ser," she said. He merely nodded in acknowledgment.

"Do you want me to leave, Your Grace?" he asked quietly.

"No. Stay. You tell me he knows you – we will carefully observe his reaction to seeing you here, standing next to me."

The man who walked through the doors and ascended the steps leading to her ebony throne was short as a boy of eight or nine and waddled as he walked, but Daenerys had seen dwarves before, and this was not what made her draw breath. It was the sight of his face that did the trick. He had mismatched eyes, one green and the other black, and his face, which was doubtless ugly at its best, was deformed by a horrible wound that slashed his cheeks and lips across and left most of his nose missing. Dany couldn't help but wonder how he acquired this wound. Had this dwarf actually ridden out to battle?

He sank onto one knee before her, his head bowed.

"Your Grace."

The meaning of these two words and the bent knee did not escape Dany. She breathed deeply, as though trying to smell treason. "Rise," she said.

He did, although this didn't make him much taller. Then, instantly, his eyes widened – he recognized Selmy.

"Ser Barristan," he said.

"You are surprised to see me here," said the old man, his eyes narrowed.

"Yes," Tyrion readily admitted, "and pleased. I have always been of the opinion that your dismissal from the Kingsguard was one of Joffrey's biggest follies, and this says a lot, remembering what my nephew was."

"Was?" growled Selmy, "We have had plenty of reports surrounding you, Imp. It is told you have killed your nephew, then your father, and a dozen other men on your way out of the black cells."

"The rumors are, as customary, exaggerated," replied Tyrion, "I have killed but two people in King's Landing lately, the man who sired me but would have given me to Ilyn Payne to make me shorter by a head, and a woman I had once loved, who betrayed me and made a mummer's show of my trial in front of the whole court."

"So it is true?" Daenerys asked in a ringing voice, "The gods have done their justice with the Usurper's son, after they had done for the Usurper himself?"

"Joffrey is dead," nodded Tyrion, "but Your Grace should know he was no son of Robert Baratheon. All of my sister's children were sired by our brother Jaime. That is why all three were pale as milk and golden as the sun – you could see no Robert in them."

This shocked Dany, but soon she composed herself. The Targaryens married brother to sister too, after all, although perhaps this was the detail that could account for the vein of madness and instability that were present in their house throughout the centuries.

"I knew it," muttered Selmy, "Cersei Lannister is a whore as well as a snake."

"I most readily agree," said Tyrion courteously, an amusing smile playing on his lips.

"Why are you here?" Daenerys asked him, studying his ugly face with those magnificent amethyst eyes of hers. The dwarf met her stare unflinching.

"To pledge myself to you," he said readily, "to say that I consider you the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I am your man, Your Grace, for whatever use you may put me as you fight to win back your birthright."

"If this is a trick, Imp…" Selmy started warningly.

"See for yourself," the little man opened his arms in what was clearly meant to be a gesture of honesty, "my way back to Westeros is closed, as long as the Lannisters rule. They want my head; I will never be forgiven, nor do I wish to be forgiven by them. I have come here openly. Where is the trick in that?"

"Yet kinslaying is a terrible sin, foul in the eyes of gods and men," insisted Ser Barristan, "did you kill Joffrey?"

"No, but I wish I knew who did, so I could shake their hand and thank them for saving the realm from a king worse than Aegon the Unworthy," retorted Tyrion.

Daenerys seemed to be deep in thought. "You have brought your wife to Meereen along with you, have you not?" she finally asked.

"Yes," said Tyrion, "the lady Sansa."

"I want to see her," said Dany.

"Certainly, Your Grace," Tyrion inclined his head, "I shall bring Sansa to you upon the morrow, if it please you."

"It will," nodded Dany, "I would speak to her alone."

Tyrion blinked. "As you wish, Your Grace."

When he came home, he found Sansa in the garden, admiring some strange local flower, a cluster of bright red bells with long, dark green leaves. Upon hearing his footsteps, she turned around and gave him a brief smile. Those smiles appeared not long ago, and he cherished them. To him, they were more solid proofs of intimacy than even the glories of her naked body in their bedchamber. Women have bedded him before, he reminded himself, but not many have had a spontaneous smile appear on their face when they saw him.

"I hope the house is to your taste, my lady?" he asked.

"It was most generous of you to take it," said Sansa, "I have never had so many rooms all to myself."

Tyrion held his tongue. In reality, his taking this manse had little to do with being generous. Of all the houses he had inspected, this one came with the tallest walls and fiercest guards, though he knew very well that even the Northern Wall and an army of their own won't save them if they chanced to get on the wrong side of the queen.

"The servants, though," Sansa went on, "I'm not sure they understand me at all. I have studied High Valyrian, but what they speak here doesn't sound remotely like it."

"It's a newer, bastard form of the tongue," said Tyrion, "remember, we heard it in the Free Cities too, on our way here. Each city has its own form of the language, and each place of Slaver's Bay adds its accent."

"I asked them to sweep our room clean and wipe the shutters," complained Sansa, "yet when I went in half an hour ago, it was still as dusty as ever."

"I'm not sure this is because they didn't understand you, Sansa. It seems nothing here stays free of dust for more than five minutes."

That much was true. The streets, the houses, the trees, the people – everything in Meereen seemed to be covered by a layer of fine yellow dust. It added its tinge to the copper faces of the Ghiscari – only the noble men were able to afford to move through the city streets in a closed palanquin with heavy curtains that kept the dust away.

"How did your audience with the queen go?" asked Sansa.

"As well as could be hoped for," told her husband, while they went inside and walked through the marble entrance hall, a splendid airy hall with cool tiled floors and light, silk-embroidered curtains. "I don't think she trusts me yet, but if she did, I wouldn't trust her. She wants to see you," added Tyrion, as they reached the wide staircase that led to the upper rooms.

"Good," said Sansa, ascending, "I should like to see her of all things. Tales tell that Queen Daenerys is a young, pretty girl, yet she had led a great army and conquered the whole of Slaver's Bay. I wish I could be more like her," she added wistfully.

"I don't," confessed Tyrion. Sansa allowed herself a girlish giggle.

They were now in front of the door leading to their bedroom, a luxurious room with silken tapestries and an ornate open window which let in the sharp lemony scent of a tree from the garden below. However spacious is was, most of it was occupied by a great canopied bed with velvet covers.

"There you go," observed Tyrion, sitting down upon the bed and resting his aching legs, "as long as you keep the windows open, dust will flit in."

"If I can smell the lemons, I don't mind the dust so much," said Sansa, sitting down upon the bed beside him and rubbing his shoulders.

These small gestures of affection were treasured by him as well. Her holding his hand, massaging his shoulders, running her fingers through his hair – it all went beyond marital duty, and despite his dire self-warnings, he felt the icy walls encasing his heart melting one after another.

"I cannot yet vouch for our safety here," he said, catching her hand, "I confess, Sansa, it would have made me easier had you consented to remain behind in the Free Cities until I settle things here. And you could continue looking for your sister."

"I worry about Arya every day," said Sansa, "but my place is here beside you."

He was grateful. He was too honest to pretend he wouldn't loath to part with her.

"Something you should know," he said, "when you go to see the queen, you will meet at her court a man you remember well from King's Landing."

"Who?" Sansa's curiosity was awakened.

"Ser Barristan Selmy."

"Ser Barristan?" Sansa looks aghast, "But… but he was in the Kingsguard, he was always loyal to Cersei and Joffrey!"

"Yes," a bitter smile twisted Tyrion's lips, "so was I. And once upon a time, sweetling," he added, "so were you. Yet look at us now; the Lannisters killed your father, and wanted to kill me too. Things like that do tend to dispel even the fiercest loyalty."


	7. Waking the dragon

The servants brought a bowl of exotic, sharp-scented fruit to the audience hall, and a flagon of wine so cloyingly sweet that Daenerys set her cup aside after two sips. She sat with her brow furrowed, studying yet another roll of parchment full of careful flattery and thinly veiled threats from the former slave-traders. No matter how many times she said no, they still insisted on resuming their requests to re-instill the abominable trade that gave Slaver's Bay its name.

As it was, the entrance of Brown Ben Plumm was an intrusion she welcomed.

"The little man's wife is here, Your Grace," he said.

"Let her come in," said Dany, putting the parchment aside and, for the time being, out of her mind, "and leave us alone."

A girl slightly younger than herself ascended the steps leading to the queen's seat, and sank gracefully onto her knees. As she did, her auburn curls tumbled down over her shoulders.

"Your Grace," she said in a sweet, clear voice.

"Rise," said Dany, eyeing the girl curiously. She was a pretty young thing, with fine pale skin and eyes of deepest blue. She spoke the Common Tongue, but was dressed in a flowing dress of silk and lace in the fashion of Lys. "Are you the wife of Tyrion Lannister?"

"Yes, Your Grace. I am Sansa Stark."

Dany frowned. The Starks of Winterfell had been traitors, loyal to the Usurper. Yet Sansa was no more than a child and, unless she was utterly deceived, no more than a pawn.

"I heard you had been betrothed to the boy Joffrey Baratheon," said Daenerys.

"Yes," Sansa's voice quivered, "but the gods have been merciful to me, and the marriage was called off."

"And you were forced to marry the Halfman instead," interjected Dany, "weren't you?"

"Yes, Your Grace. I was their ward, and I… I strongly resented this marriage at first, but now I feel that those who arranged it promoted my happiness without meaning to. Does that sound unbelievable, Your Grace?"

"No," said Dany after a heartbeat, "such things may happen." It had happened to her, with her sun-and-stars. Yet Drogo was a tall, strong warrior with a fiercely handsome face, not a stunted dwarf with a hideous gash of a battle wound where his nose had once been.

"My lord husband has been very good to me," Sansa added quietly, "kinder and gentler than I could have hoped, at a time when I had no one in the world."

Dany looked at the younger girl with growing interest and sympathy. "Come and sit by me," she said, gesturing towards the silk cushions next to her ebony bench. Sansa obeyed.

"Your husband claims he wishes to pledge allegiance to me in my war against his kin," said Daenerys.

"When you hear what they did to him, Your Grace, you will understand."

"If he was not the one to kill his nephew, they had accused him unjustly. Is there more?"

"Yes," whispered Sansa, "they had dishonored his first wife, a girl he loved. Tyrion is loyal to those who are loyal to him, but he doesn't forgive treason."

"We are much alike, then," said Daenerys, "for I reward loyalty, but those who betray me are as good as dead," Sansa didn't miss the warning in those last words.

"Your Grace will never have reason to doubt our loyalty," she said.

"We shall see about that," said Dany, but her eyes were smiling, "how should you and your lord husband like to sup with me tonight, Sansa?"

"It will be our greatest honor and pleasure, Your Grace."

Daenerys noticed that the girl seemed to want to say something else, but held her tongue. "Did you want to ask something, Sansa?"

"Your Grace… they call you Mother of Dragons in the Free Cities. Pray tell, is it true what they say? Do you really have -?"

"It is true," Daenerys smiled openly now, "all you have heard, and more."

… "I have always wanted to see a dragon," confessed Tyrion.

"Indeed?" Sansa paused, holding the necklace of aquamarines he had given her upon their arrival at the city, and looked at him curiously. They were getting ready for supper with the queen.

"Their size alone was a source of continuous wistful fascination for a small man like me," he said, "here, allow me."

He stepped behind her as she sat down on the bed and, taking the necklace from her, deftly clasped it. His hand then lightly and tenderly brushed the back of her neck. He touched and caressed her shoulders and arms, tentatively at first. He always starts out tentatively, Sansa thought, until I give him encouragement. It was as thought Tyrion was always keeping a venue of escape open for her, a way for her to avoid his touch if it isn't welcome.

Four times out of five, it was she who turned towards him in their bed at night, when candles were blown out. When he was the one to reach out to her, she wasted no time in welcoming him to the haven of her body. Had she done otherwise, he would have retreated at once to he brittle and bitterly cold shell of cynical sarcasm that had ensconced his soul for so long. Out there, Tyrion might be cold, brisk and calculating, but in their bedchamber, he belonged to her, and in front of her he was vulnerable. The slightest hesitation, the faintest hint of reluctance on her part would be felt by him painfully.

Sansa understood all that, and realized that the tense awkwardness they sometimes still experienced with one another was bound to lift in time. Time and experience more than reconciled her to their marriage, and time would make Tyrion get used to the idea that she now saw it as a blessing, a hidden smile of the gods upon her.

"This won't do," he said as she turned towards him. He touched one of the aquamarine earrings that adorned her small, delicate earlobes, "you cannot go to the queen when you risk to outshine her."

"You are a shameless flatterer, my lord," she teased, but looked pleased all the same.

"Oh?" he raised an eyebrow. "Have I been taught wrong? When I was a boy I was told that's the sort of thing one should say to his lady wife."

"Your lady wife won't be so easily impressed," said Sansa. "Septa Mordane taught us too well."

He spoke no further, but there was no need to. The way he looked at her was enough.

"It appears I have dressed too soon for the queen's supper," said Sansa with playful slowness, and guided his hands to the lacings of her bodice. Her husband began to undo them in quick, practiced movements. They had less than an hour at their disposal.

… Forty-five minutes later, Tyrion's boots were laced and Sansa's hair was hastily brushed and set off her forehead with a wide ribbon of tourmaline silk. Their litter awaited to deliver them to the queen's palace.

"We are very nearly late," Tyrion pointed out.

"Well, you were in such haste to undress me, my lord, that you tore my stocking, which meant I must send for another pair. And a very fine silk stocking it was, too, one of my favorite."

Tyrion looked sheepish, Sansa amused. "I don't see why you should wear stockings at all, in the heat of this damnable city," he said.

"I cannot go to the queen without stockings," explained Sansa in a voice one would use when teaching a young child his letters for the first time.

"The queen was barefoot when she received me," said Tyrion.

"This is Daenerys Targaryen we are talking about," countered Sansa, "it's her blood that makes her queen, not her shoes."

… Daenerys observed them through narrowed eyes, over the rim of her wine cup. Tyrion Lannister was cutting his fish, Sansa tasting a persimmon baked with almond milk and cloves. The servants had been sent away, and the three of them were seated quite intimately in a small chamber illuminated by numerous candles.

Dany didn't recall ever seeing a stranger pairing. The grotesque ugliness of the dwarf's face was even more pronounced next to the lovely features of his wife. Yet from watching them closely for the past two hours, she was fairly convinced that their marriage, whichever way it started, was now genuine – and so, she hoped, were the motives of those who were seated across her.

"You are a Lannister of the Rock, Tyrion," she said.

"Not something I am so very proud of now, Your Grace," he interjecting, putting his knife and fork aside, "I've even been thinking I might renounce that name and that pretentious sigil."

"No, my lord," Sansa's voice was heard unexpectedly, strangely confident, "of all your kin, you are the one fittest to go under the lion banner."

"Perhaps you could make a new sigil, one that would suit both of you," suggested the queen, "say, a red lion of Casterly Rock, upon the snow of Winterfell."

Tyrion and Sansa exchanged glances. "This is an idea I haven't thought of, Your Grace," said Tyrion.

"I like it," said Sansa, "this is a banner that would be all your own, my lord. That wouldn't cast the shadows of others upon you."

"Banners are for wartime," said Tyrion, looking directly at the queen, "and I know, Your Grace, that this is where we will be headed soon."

"Yes," said Dany, inclining her head slightly, "and I would rather start it and have it carried out on my terms, than have it foisted on me by others, thus giving them the advantage of attack."

"Her Grace is wise," said Tyrion.

"Am I?" Dany asked sharply. She looked resplendent tonight, in a gown of purple silk that brought out her eyes, but no crown sat upon her head, and without its weight, it was easier to notice how young she was. "Tell me this. Is now the right time to start war?"

"No time could be better, Your Grace," Tyrion assured her, "King's Landing is in disarray after my father's death, the North lies in shambles, the Iron Islanders are squabbling among themselves, the Vale keeps out of the way of war as usual, and Dorne is most like to support you. Lead your armies across the narrow sea now, and the Seven Kingdoms will fall into your hands like ripe fruit."

"Now, you say," persisted Dany, "yet it is a long way to the narrow sea and beyond. Much and more may change by the time we reach Westeros."

"This argument will always be true, no matter when you set out," said Tyrion, "I have given you my advice, Your Grace. With your might and the support a large part of Westeros is bound to show you, you have good chances of winning this war and bringing peace to our poor bleeding land at last."

"Yes," Daenerys said finally, "your words correspond with what I have been thinking myself, Lord Lannister. What I have been waiting for is now nearly ready."

"What you have been waiting for, Your Grace?" repeated Tyrion, confused.

"Yes," said Daenerys, "it was a long wait that began in the Dothraki Sea, when I set up the funeral pyre for my lord husband. Back then, I had half a mind to step onto it myself."

"But you didn't do that, Your Grace," Sansa said quietly.

"No," said Dany, "instead, I did what had to be done. I burned my insecurities and my innocence, my fears and the illusion that someone better, braver and stronger will ever stand between me and my enemies. I put my old self upon that pyre, and set the wood alight," the queen's eyes were the darkest, deepest shade of violet now, and a dangerous smile played upon her lips, "and I woke the dragon."


	8. The Snow Lion

"Her Grace seems to have taken a fondness to your company," observed Tyrion, "the two of you have met every day for the past fortnight."

"Queen Daenerys is very gracious and amiable," said Sansa, "and appears to have a good heart, too. She shows interest in me."

"And no wonder," said her husband, "Daenerys Targaryen has borne such hardships and faced them so valiantly, that one is apt to forget how young she is. You are near her age, and the queen hasn't had a proper highborn lady for a companion in a long while. It's unsurprising that she has taken to you."

"Today, you are to come with me, Tyrion," said Sansa.

"Oh?" he was surprised, "Am I?"

"Yes. The queen mentioned it explicitly. Her own litter will be sent for us around midday."

… "Look up," the queen told them.

Tyrion squinted, and saw three black specks in the sky. Daenerys put her hands to her mouth, and a soft, musical cry escaped her lips. The three specks were becoming larger now, and turned into creatures that had elongated bodies, long, flexible tails, and huge leathery wings.

"No," Tyrion muttered, stunned, "no, it cannot be – but – but it must be –"

"You did say you wanted to see dragons," his wife reminded him slyly, though she looked as awed as he was, and no less apprehensive.

Yes, he did say that, but if he should be honest, all he wanted to do now was run as fast as his legs would carry him – which, he reminded himself, was probably nowhere fast enough if a dragon decided it was up for a nibble.

So he remained where he was, and a look of mixed awe, fascination and fear settled upon his face as the beasts landed in the courtyard beside them. Huge things they were, and fearsome, as the dragons he had seen in book illustrations and pictured in his mind's eye as he walked past their skulls and bones in the castle dungeons. There were three – a green one, a cream and gold, and a black dragon that was perhaps the most menacing of all.

"How should you like to ride one of them, Lord Lannister?" asked the queen, rendering him completely speechless for a few seconds.

"I," he stammered, "would – would they let me?"'

"If I command them to," smiled Daenerys, "come, I believe Viserion is in a tractable mood today."

She beckoned for Tyrion to approach the cream and gold dragon, and he stood gingerly by her side as she stroked the beast's scaly head and whispered something in its ear. The beast's piercing eyes were fixed upon Tyrion, unblinking, its lizard-like tail swished suspiciously. The heat coming from it could be felt even a few steps away. And then, quite unexpectedly, the dragon bent its scaly legs and rested its belly upon the ground.

"Go ahead and mount him," urged the queen, "I believe it is quite safe now."

Tyrion was far from believing this, but there was no turning back. He went ahead and climbed onto the dragon's back with the reckless daring of doing something foolish but inevitable. Her Grace gave him an encouraging smile.

"Hold on firmly to its neck," she advised, "and fear not. I will be going up in the air with you."

Daenerys went off towards the black dragon, whereas Tyrion did his best to get a good firm grip on his dragon's neck, something that wasn't easy to do, because the scales were more slippery than he had expected – and also because he couldn't stop his fingers from trembling. And then Daenerys gave another long, musical cry and the dragons spread their wings.

Tyrion was thrown off balance and held on to the dragon's neck for dear life, and when he finally settled into a firm enough position and looked down, they were already high up in the air, the courtyard no larger than a handkerchief. The queen was for on his left, and the dragons were gaining height. Tyrion looked down again, expecting a wave of fear that never came.

Instead, he was overwhelmed by a wave of exhilaration such as he had never felt in his life. The dragon was large enough to dwarf any man, but upon his back he felt like a giant. The city sprawled below, the buildings like pebbles, the people scurrying in the streets like ants. The wind whooshed in his ears. Up here, it didn't matter how tall he was; up here, the world belonged to him, sun and sky and wind and clouds – and Tyrion let out a whoop of joy, forgetting how afraid he had been mere minutes before.

… Down in the courtyard, Ser Barristan Selmy now stood next to Sansa, who was peering anxiously up into the sky, while keeping a good distance from Rhaegal. The green dragon was looking up at his brothers as well, and had, it seemed, half a mind to join them.

"Lady Sansa," she heard the knight's voice.

"Ser Barristan," she greeted him, "it is a pleasure to meet you again at last."

"It is queer that I should only see you now, my lady," said Selmy, "as you spend so much time with the queen these days."

"Her Grace has been kind enough to say she enjoys my company," Sansa said modestly. For a reason she didn't understand, this made the old knight crease his forehead.

"Her Grace is not sixteen," he finally said after a long silence.

"What do you mean, ser?" frowned Sansa.

"Only this," Barristan the Bold turned to face her, and his voice was sharp, "I wouldn't be so quick to trust the Imp and a girl who shares his bed and his plans even though he helped murder her mother and brother."

"My lord husband promised me he had nothing to do with it," Sansa's voice quivered.

"Oh, and you believed him just because he said so?" Ser Barristan gave a derisive snort. "Child, either you have reasons that are unknown to me, or you are even sillier than you were when you first came to King's Landing."

Sansa stepped away from him, seething. She held back her tongue and her tears. No, she wouldn't believe this, she would not… she looked up at the sky again, and saw that Drogon and Viserion were already carrying back to the ground the two people on whom all her hopes and happiness now depended – her husband and her queen.

"How did you like your ride, ser?" Daenerys asked Tyrion after they had dismounted.

"Ser? I am no knight, Your Grace," objected Tyrion.

"No? In that case, I would knight you now," the queen said, "green boys and sellswords of doubtful honor have gotten knighthood for showing but a fraction of your bravery."

"Begging your pardon, my queen," said Tyrion politely, "but a woman cannot make a knight."

"A woman cannot lead a khalasar, conquer and rule Slaver's Bay, or make dragons hatch from eggs that were turned to stone centuries ago," said Dany, "I am Daenerys Targaryen, Stormborn, Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, and if I say you are a knight, ser, so does the rest of the world."

She laid a hand on his shoulder. "From now on, Lord Lannister, you shall be known as Ser Tyrion Dragonwing, the Snow Lion. I count upon your loyal service and wise counsel in the upcoming battles. You and Ser Barristan will each mount a dragon and ride with me, command my armies, and help me win back my birthright. You will be rewarded beyond anything you ever dreamed of. And to you, lady Sansa," Daenerys turned to the girl and spoke wamly, "I will give back your home, Winterfell. When the war ends, it will please me to travel north and see the hot springs and heart trees you told me about."

Ser Barristan looked sour but didn't say a word. Sansa's eyes glowed with pride as she looked at her husband, but a dark doubt lingered in them still.

"My lady," said Tyrion, taking his wife's hand, his voice quivering with emotion. "These dragons are a miracle, a legend come alive again. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to have you soar in the air along with me," he glanced at the queen, "if Her Grace permits?"

And as Viserion went up in the air again, this time with Sansa behind Tyrion's back, holding tightly to his waist, the future unfolded before him like the coast of Slaver's Bay. Glory there would be, and danger too, oh yes, but still he wouldn't trade this for anything.

Ser Tyrion Dragonwing. Ser Tyrion, the Snow Lion. Nothing had ever sounded sweeter.

… Yet later, when they returned to the manse, it turned out that some shadows hunt them still.

"I did not lie to you, Sansa," Tyrion said gently, "though I understand why you find this hard to believe."

"Will you swear it, though?" Sansa's eyes sparkled with tears, "Will you solemnly swear it?"

Tyrion looked at his sweet young wife, and sighed at the innocence that still gave weight to promises and oaths.

"I swear by the sun and stars and the Seven," he said forcefully, "by everything I ever held dear, I played no part in the Red Wedding. That whole disgusting affair had my father's stinking hands all over it, and no one but that slime Walder Frey could have collaborated with a scheme so filthy. Had I known anything at all about it beforehand, I would have done all I could to stop it. I think my father knew it, and that's why he was so careful to keep me in the dark until the deed was done."

"I believe you," Sansa said tremulously, after studying his eyes for a few seconds, and dissolved into tears.

"Be that as it may," Tyrion continued in a calm voice, although his chest was rising and falling rapidly, "when I abducted you from the Vale, Sansa, I had not meant to turn you from Littlefinger's plaything into my own. My intention was to give you your freedom back. I meant to tell you this on the first night we stopped at that inn," he added, "but somehow, never got to it."

"I have never been free," Sansa whispered, "and I never will be."

"Yes, you are," Tyrion insisted, "if I am a lion, it is my wish that you should be a lioness as well. I can give you means and money to do what you will – go to the Free Cities to look for your sister, return to the north to seek your friends among your father's men or," his voice grew quieter and quivered ever so slightly, "stay with me."

"I will never be free," repeated Sansa, but he saw a smile dawn through her tears, "but neither do I want to be. I am with child, Tyrion."

He blinked several times and swayed on the spot, like a man who had been hit over the head with a heavy object.

"With – you – are you certain?" he finally managed to squeeze out.

She nodded. "I didn't want to tell you before I was absolutely sure," she said, "aren't – aren't you pleased, my lord?" she added uncertainly, observing the dumbstruck expression of his face.

"I wish I had a way to remove you quickly and efficiently out of harm's way and to a safe place, Sansa," her husband finally replied, regaining his senses, "only I'm afraid there won't be any safe places until the end of this war."

"Don't worry," Sansa gave him a reassuring, though somewhat watery smile, "we are a pack of dragons, direwolves and lions. Who would harm us?"


	9. Underfoot returns

On and on the column went, a procession of men and horses, warriors of all colors and styles of weapons; Dothraki arakhs could be seen there, along with the spiked bronze caps of the Unsullied, and the straight swords and lances in fashion of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. The soldiers moved in a cloud of dust raised by their feet and their horses' hooves.

A scrawny bare-footed girl hid behind a tomb of sunburnt clay, watching it all. She was a forlorn, mousey-haired creature in tattered rags that might once have been black. Or grey, it made no difference, for no one paid any attention to her.

She shuffled from one foot to another. She has been standing there since morning, and still the warriors kept coming. Her gaze didn't linger on them as they went past her towards the docks of Braavos, where they would go abroad ships. The girl heard the queen brought dragons with her – real, live dragons, after centuries in which the creatures had been extinct – and it was dragons she wanted to see.

She peered forward in excitement. No, those weren't the dragons, but at least now she would get to see the queen herself. Her Grace rode at the end of the column, mounted on a silver mare of rare beauty and flanked by her guards, fierce-looking Dothraki with bells jingling in their oiled braids.

The queen was a slip of a girl, dressed in Dothraki boiled leather, yet her features made one want to weep at the sight of such beauty. A long flowing cloak in fine silk of the Targaryen red and black trailed from her shoulders.

And riding beside the queen on a chestnut mare, there was a young and pretty girl with auburn hair and blue eyes. She looked like… but no, it was impossible, she couldn't be…

"Sansa!"

Arya Stark had not expected to be heard over the clang of armor, the clip-clop of horse hooves and the sounds of countless voices, yet it appeared the queen and her companion had their attention captured. They stopped, and looked, and then the blue-eyed girl had gone pale, and the reins fell out of her hand.

… An hour later, Arya was sitting in front of Sansa, washed, brushed, and garbed in one of her sister's dresses, which was slightly too loose on her. Arya liked it, though; it was very fine wool, simply cut, and was softer and cleaner than anything she wore in a while.

"We were in the Free Cities not long past, and we looked for you everywhere," said Sansa tearfully, "_everywhere_. Where have you been?"

Arya answered with as much dignity as she could muster through a large mouthful of bread, butter and honey:

"I've been hiding. The Lannister dogs were looking for us both, remember?"

"It's only us now, Arya," said Sansa, her voice thick with sorrow, "us and Jon."

"Funny you should remember Jon now," remarked Arya, "they made him Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, you know."

"What?" Sansa was astonished, "How do you know that?"

"A black brother who sailed through Braavos told me," explained Arya, "but how did you end up with the Targaryen queen? I hope she burns King's Landing," she added savagely.

"I went to Slaver's Bay with Tyrion," said Sansa.

"Tyrion Lannister? The Imp? Sansa…" Arya sounded hesitant. "Did you… is it true that you were made to _marry_ him?"

"Yes," Sansa said simply. Arya looked appalled.

"But – since you were forced – couldn't you find a septon that would annul this?"

"The High Septon himself proclaimed us man and wife," said Sansa in a strained voice, "no one can overrule him."

"But if Daenerys Targaryen wins," Arya clutched Sansa's hand, "and we can go home, a septon's words will mean nothing to the old gods."

"They will mean everything to me," Sansa said firmly, "I am carrying his child, Arya, and no one in the world can annul _that_."

Arya looked thunderstruck. "Sansa…"

"He would not claim his… his rights on me at first, you know," Sansa blushed crimson, "he waited until I went to him myself."

"And you… you did?" Arya gaped at her, open-mouthed. Her sister nodded.

"One day, hopefully soon, you will understand."

Arya looked bewildered. "It's just that he is so… so…"

"Ugly?" suggested Sansa.

"Hideous," finished Arya, "but that's the least of it. He is a Lannister! They had killed our father, our mother and our brother!"

"Not Tyrion," insisted Sansa, "his hands are clean."

"So you really are married to him now," repeated Arya.

"In the sight of gods and men," said Sansa, "and it will never change."

… "What is it, blood of my blood?" asked Daenerys, lifting her head from a stack of maps over which she had been poring together with Tyrion and Barristan Selmy. Her bloodriders, meanwhile, were assigned with the charge of supervising the soldiers' ascent to the ships.

"There is an Andal to see you, khaleesi," said Rakharo, "a man garbed as a warrior."

"Let him in," allowed Dany, "and I want you to stand next to me, blood of my blood. I hope this man is a friend, but one may never know."

"Only a fool will mark himself as your foe, khaleesi," said Rakharo, "but the world is full of fools." He turned on his heel and went out of the door.

The man whom he escorted into the room two minutes later was a tall, young, dashing knight with olive skin, dark eyes and straight, black shoulder-length hair. Upon seeing Daenerys, he instantly sank to one knee.

"Gracious queen," he said in the sultry tones of Dorne.

"Rise, ser," said Dany, "and tell me your name."

"I am Vymar Estermont, if it please Your Grace," said the man, "an envoy from Prince Doran."

"I know you, ser," Tyrion said suddenly, "you were part of the escort that came with Oberyn Martell to King's Landing. You are kin to Eldon Estermont, are you not?"

The surprised knight looking at him, and disbelief showed clearly in his face. "The Halfman?"

"I would prefer Tyrion Dragonwing, the brave Snow Lion," said the little man, "but whichever way you put it, it is me."

"The Lord Lannister is one of my own sworn men now," said the queen, "what have you come with, ser Vymar?"

"To say that in Dorne, many swords are being hones to join the ones of your army, Your Grace," said Estermont, "Sunspear has always been loyal to house Targaryen, and we eagerly await the moment you cross the narrow sea."

"You have my thanks, sir," said Daenerys, "I will not forget that Dorne was the first of the Seven Kingdoms to swear fealty to me, and it shall be where my ships make for. You, Ser Vymar, will sail with me, to put your sword to good use for your rightful queen."

"I desire nothing else, Your Grace," the young knight said solemnly, and Dany allowed him to kiss her fingertips.

"I am glad we shall be stopping at Dorne on our way to King's Landing," said Tyrion, "I should like to see how my niece is doing."

By then, the Dornishman was immersed in talk with Ser Barristan and made no sign he heard Tyrion's words, but a look of inexplicable unease flickered in his eyes.


	10. On their way

Prince Doran feasted them splendidly at Sunspear, with delicately spiced shellfish stew, baked fish in crumbs, roast boar, roast swan, cakes and pies and nuts and cheese, and sweet, richly flavored wine, local and from the Arbor. Many toasts were made in honor of Queen Daenerys, the Stormborn, Conqueror of many peoples, and mother of dragons. The dragons were by now far too big to be accommodated in the feasting hall, so they were left outside, where the mild weather of the Dornish autumn was quite comfortable.

Tyrion, however, did not allow himself to be carried away by the hearty toasts and bawdy jests. He kept looking at Doran Martell, and by the time the cheese was served grew quite convinced that the prince is avoiding his eye. When the feasters rose to depart, Tyrion whispered something in his wife's ear, got up and nimbly made his way towards the prince.

"Could I have a private word?"

"It is getting late, my lord," Doran Martell replied evasively.

"This will not take long," Tyrion promised. The prince sighed as a man resigning himself to his fate, and showed Tyrion the way to his solar.

"I was surprised," Tyrion began without preamble, refusing the prince's offer of a cup of wine, "not to see my niece at the welcoming feast."

"You arrived late, my lord," said the Dornish prince, yet Tyrion didn't miss the treacherous flicker of fear in the man's eyes. "The child is accustomed to an early bedtime hour."

"Yet I would see her," insisted Tyrion, "I am her uncle, after all, and it has been a while since we parted."

"Upon the morrow," said Doran, "we will talk at length, my lord, and I will be able to…"

"And where, pray tell, is Ser Arys Oakheart?" demanded Tyrion, "I haven't seen him either. I know how devoted he is to his little princess, but surely there are other guards who might ensure her safety if ever Ser Arys has to go off to take a leak?"

When Doran Martell said nothing, Tyrion went on. "I want to see Myrcella."

"My lord, I hardly think... at this hour…"

"Let me get this straight," Tyrion's voice was steely, "I don't give a mummer's fart about what hour it is. I want to see my niece, and I want to see her _now_."

"Very well," said Prince Doran, rising from his seat with a deep sigh.

… Myrcella rushed forward to greet him with a happy exclamation, but stopped in her tracks, seeing the expression of horror upon his face.

"They haven't told you, uncle?" she said quietly.

His niece's face was a grotesque mask. One half of it was smooth, perfect in its loveliness, the other mutilated, scarred, with a missing ear.

"What happened?" he asked hoarsely. "Who did this to you, child? Tell me true, and fear nothing. No one will hurt you again."

"It was a treacherous, evil man," said Myrcella. "You mustn't blame Prince Doran, uncle, he is kind and gentle, and those were his men who saved me."

_Yes, and no doubt this is a song he taught you to sing_, Tyrion thought bitterly. _But I shall have another tune from this bloody Dornishman._

… Tyrion wasted no time in confronting the prince.

"I will put this quite plainly," he said, his voice terribly quiet and laden with suppressed fury. "Heads will roll, and you had better speak if you don't want yours to be the first."

"It was Darkstar," Doran Martell said at once, in a voice that was fearful and grievous, "a conniving bastard that is now hunted all over Dorne and beyond. Rest assured, once he is found, that will be the end of him."

"The question, then," Tyrion pressed on, satisfyingly aware of how the Dornish prince squirmed under the gaze of his mismatched eyes, "how come Myrcella happened to be close enough for this man to hurt her? She was supposed to be under your protection. You assumed responsibility for her when you took her for a ward."

For a moment Doran Martell struggled for words, then his shoulders slumped in defeat. "My daughter," he said quietly. "Forgive me, my lord, but this was my mistake. I was too lax, too indulgent, slow to act when I should have been quick to intercept this plot. Arianne meant no harm to Myrcella, but she wanted to crown her, to make her queen, to get her on the Iron Throne, and this foolish ambition cost us all dearly."

_Crown her_. Once he had toyed with the idea too, Tyrion thought with a shudder. _To crown her is to kill her_. Truer words have never been spoken.

… "You mustn't blame yourself, my lord," Sansa said gently.

Tyrion lifted his face up from his hands, and his features were contorted with anguish. "I thought she would be safer far away from King's Landing," he said, "and better off without her mother around her."

"It might turn out still that you were right," Sansa's expression was somber, "if King's Landing is sacked…"

Tyrion couldn't but acknowledge the truth of her words. He was of a better opinion of their queen than to consider the possibility she would harm Tommen on purpose, but this was war, and some of the men in Her Grace's army were brutes, ferocious savages who lived for plunder and rape.

"Gods be good," he muttered, shaking his head, "it does seem that the family attracts mortal peril and hideous wounds… me, Jaime, Myrcella… makes me wonder what might happen to Cersei."

"Will you demand punishment for those who started the plot to crown Myrcella?" asked Sansa.

Tyrion frowned. Heads will roll, he promised, but he had no heart in him to do this to a lovely young princess like Arianne Martell.

"We shall see," he said.

"And what of the betrothal? Does it still stand?"

He heaved a sigh. "Myrcella now talks of becoming a septa. She is convinced marriage is not for her, that Trystane will not want to wed her given how she looks now. I believe, however, that it is too soon to tell. I think I will let things run their course… let the boy and the girl grow and decide on their own, I say."

"Myrcella remains in Dorne, then?"

"She does. My first notion was to take her with me, but here Myrcella's protection has been doubled, whereas I am going to a place far more dangerous than Sunspear."


	11. The prophecy fulfilled

"Your Grace," said Qyburn, "I will not deceive you. Our state of affairs is very grave. King's Landing is besieged, half the lords in the realm have already unfurled their Targaryen banners, and Dorne was the first to offer Daenerys its armies."

_Traitors_. Cersei clenched her fists. No doubt holding her daughter hostage has made the Martells feel invulnerable to the wrath of King's Landing and Casterly Rock. Yet another one of the Imp's ideas that was proving to be self-destructive.

"Now, if we were to call forth heralds and suggest a parley, terms of peace…"

"No," said Cersei, her green eyes glinting furiously, "no terms will ever do. The Targaryen girl and I cannot both sit upon the Iron Throne."

"My informers have brought me another bit of troubling news, Your Grace," Qyburn went on. "Your brother, the Imp, has joined Daenerys Targaryen, along with his wife."

"Sansa Stark? Truly?" Cersei looked stunned. "Has the she-wolf resurfaces, then?"

"No doubt the girl was seeking some shared glory," said Qyburn, "your brother is an important man now, and you know what a danger he poses with all his knowledge at the disposal of your enemies. Now, if I may venture to mention this again, I have a plan that would enable me to smuggle you out of the city walls safely…"

"I said _no_," Cersei cut across him sharply and paced back and forth, her skirts swirling, "I will not have this vile dwarf and his cunt drive me into hiding like some scurrying rat!"

"As you wish, Your Grace," Qyburn's face was impassive.

"What about Jaime?" demanded Cersei, "Have you had any news?"

"It seems your brother has disappeared," said Qyburn, "a wise move, if I may say so, for Daenerys Targaryen has placed a price of ten thousand golden dragons on his head. In his case, even bending the knee wouldn't save him."

"Jaime is a Lannister of Casterly Rock," snapped Cersei, "he would never bend his knee to this upjumped dragonswpan."

"The Freys have, though," Qyburn remarked smoothly, "so have Rowan, Tarly and all the lords of he Vale."

Littlefinger was behind this, she would bet. Another traitor. She has been an idiot to ever trust this man.

That night, she supped alone with Tommen. The fare was plain; with the siege in full force and the city stores dwindling, Cersei thought it a prudent measure to keep an appearance of modesty. There was bread and cheese, cold mutton, and pears stewed with cinnamon and honey. She was having a difficulty to swallow even that. Nervous dread made her set her spoon aside.

"Will they break through the city walls and kill us all, Mother?" Tommen asked, his eyes wide and fearful.

"No," promised Cersei, "the city walls are strong, and soon, help will come to drive these evil savages away."

This was what she would have wanted to believe… but where should help come from? Her uncle Kevan still held Casterly Rock, true, but he was alone as well, and had no forces to spare.

… When they came to call for her, she already knew what had happened, and was bedecked in her finest clothes and brightest jewels. King's Landing might have fallen, the city might be sacked by the Targaryen army this very moment, but she will come out to them proud, with her head held high, as befits a queen.

She descended into the courtyard, flanked by the men who still remained to her. All were skilled warriors and well-armed, but she knew fighting would be futile if indeed the city walls have been broken through. And then, up in the sky, coming lower and closer, ever closer – she saw the dragon.

She had to bite her lip to keep from screaming.

The black dragon was swiftest, and as it landed, Cersei came face to face with a girl who made her let out a gasp of terrified recognition. She was garbed in the fashion of the barbarous Dothraki, but her face was the face of old Valyria, of house Targaryen, of the beautiful Prince Rhaegar of whom she had dreamt as a girl.

"Cersei Lannister," said the girl, "bend your knee to me, and you shall be spared. You will be permitted to go to Casterly Rock once I conquer it. Your son shall suffer no harm, and a lordship will be bestowed upon him when he comes of age."

The prophecy, Cersei remembered with a shudder. _Queen you shall be, but one day, another will come, younger and more beautiful._ And now, it appears, she is here.

And then another dragon landed in front of her, cream and gold, and mounted atop it, leering mockingly, sat her _valonqar_. "Sweet sister, we meet again at last."

Cersei didn't need to think twice. She knew exactly what she would do if he dares to show his ugly face to her. The seven hells might await her, but she will be taking him along.

She made a sign to two of her men, and two crossbow bolts were loosened. The Imp fell with a gurgling noise, spouting blood.

Dany's eyes darkened with fury, and she said one single word:

_"Dracarys!" _


	12. Forgiveness and farewell

"You are very lucky, Ser Tyrion,"

"I know, Your Grace," he replied.

They were walking by the walls of the Red Keep, Tyrion leaning heavily on a walking stick. One of the crossbow bolts fractured his kneecap, and although Maester Darrion promised the limp would be diminished with time, he warned that it will never be quite gone. _Great, _Tyrion thought. _A limp to add to my waddle. Just what I needed. _Still, it could have been much worse.

The last thing he remembered before passing out was Cersei burning alive. _And a sweet sight she made, too_. The first thing he saw when he regained consciousness was Sansa's tearful, anxious face. He had chided his wife many a time in the following days to get her rest and entrust him to the care of the masters, but her refusal to quit his side filled him with deep satisfaction.

"I granted pardon to your uncle Kevan when he surrendered Casterly Rock," said Daenerys, "your nephew Tommen is with him now. I have declared my forgiveness of all the Lannisters, except…"

"Jaime," finished Tyrion, "Your Grace, if he were to take the black – "

"No," Daenerys shook her head, "I'm sorry, ser, but the Kingslayer's only fate if I lay my hands upon him will be the headsman's axe."

Tyrion knew better than to press this point, and merely bowed his head in acknowledgement.

"I would make a request of you," said the queen.

"Her Grace needs not make requests of me, for I am hers to command."

"Be my Hand," said Dany, "I know you would serve me better than anyone."

"Your Grace…" Tyrion hesitated. "I have served as hand once, and if you require it I will do so again, but… the Seven Kingdoms are full of able men, and I know that staying here will not make my lady happy."

"I mentioned the prospect to Sansa, and she expressed her enthusiasm about it," said Dany.

"Of course she did. Sansa is dutiful, but I know her heart's desire is to return to Winterfell and begin rebuilding it. It is there that she will want to bring our child into this world."

He feared the queen would be vexed, but she smiled.

"So be it. Ser Tyrion Dragonwing, I name you my Warden of the North. With the winter already descending upon us, and the Wall more vulnerable than ever, I need a man like you in Winterfell."

_"Marry Sansa Stark,"_ his father's words echoed in Tyrion's mind, _"and one day you may rule the north in her name."_ Well, it seems this is coming true, though not quite in the way Tywin Lannister had foreseen.

Their party went away the next day, under two banners – Tyrion's crimson lion on a field of white, and the direwolf of house Stark. As they said their farewells, Sansa sank onto her knees in front of the queen, but Dany drew her to her feet and kissed her on both cheeks.

"Goodbye, Sansa. When I arrange matters here, I shall visit all of the Seven Kingdoms, and hope to come to Winterfell soon enough. Perhaps I will even be in time to hold your child just as it is born."

"Perhaps you might be with child yourself by then, Your Grace," suggested Sansa, "if you accept one of the many suitors clamoring for your hand."

"The prophecy said I will never bear a living child," Daenerys said with a hint of sadness. "I'm afraid house Targaryen will die with me. But I am young, and in due time I will name a heir, so that peace is preserved in Westeros after my death. Until we meet again, Sansa."

… Their column traveled slowly. Sansa's condition and Tyrion's wounds made it necessary to take along a wheelhouse pulled by a dozen horses, in which the lord and lady found respite from the doubtful pleasures of riding. Many people rode with them, some of whom Sansa knew, others not. One familiar face was Ser Aslyn Blackwood, who made a point to say a gallant word to her every time they stopped to make camp.

One such time, Sansa noticed a young man who rode with Ser Aslyn, a burly, black-haired, blue-eyed youth with powerful arms, wearing a horned helm. His broody silence made strong contrast to Ser Aslyn's flow of chatter.

"Would you tell me the name of your companion, Ser Aslyn?" asked Sansa.

"Ah," said Blackwood with a smile. "This is Ser Gendry Hill, my lady. A fine fellow, was knighted at the end of Bitterbridge battle. The Bull of Bitterbridge, they called him."

Hill. A bastard, thought Sansa, yet she spoke to the surly young knight politely all the same. "So you fought at Bitterbridge, ser? I've heard some of the Freys fought there too, have you come face to face with them?"

"I slew two or three Freys there, m'lady," replied the burly young man indifferently. "'Twas a blood bath that day."

It was at this moment that Arya, who rode more expeditiously at the head of the column, stopped her horse and called excitedly:

"Gendry!"

"Do you know each other?" Sansa asked curiously, looking from her sister to the young man.

"M'lady of Stark," Gendry looked at Arya, his expression as surly as ever.

"He is the one I told you about," Arya said to her sister, "the Bull."

"I prefer to be known as _Ser_ Bull these days," countered the young man.

"I would be glad if you make it for Winterfell, together with Ser Aslyn," said Sansa graciously.

"It would be a great pleasure, my lady," said Gendry, but there was little pleasure in his face when he rode off.

"What?" snapped Arya, observing her sister's smirk.

"I saw the way he looked at you," said Sansa.

"He hardly did."

"That's precisely the point. He is baseborn, you are a Stark of Winterfell. He dare not presume…"

"Gendry doesn't even know what _presume_ mean," Arya cut across her.

"Was he born in King's Landing?" Sansa asked.

"I think so. Why?"

"Ever noticed who he looks like? That black hair, those blue eyes… he has the look of a Baratheon."

"You think…" Arya looked up at her in wonder, "no wonder Queen Cersei's men were looking for him. Well, I suppose it's likely he's Robert's bastard, but you'll find that hard to wrangle out of him. Whenever someone talks of his parents, Gendry shuts up like an oyster and it's impossible to make him string two words together."

"We'll see about that," Sansa smiled enigmatically. She had an idea or two in her mind that would help her satisfy her curiosity.

Another time, as Sansa and Tyrion were getting ready for bed, their cupbearer knocked and said a man insists on seeing the lord right away.

"Who?" asked Tyrion.

"I have no clue, m'lord. He kept his face hooded."

"And you just let him wander around the camp?" scowled Tyrion. The war was over, Daenerys had won, yet many still held grudges, and some of those men he had not the smallest wish to run across.

"It's me," a voice sounded outside the wheelhouse. Tyrion froze.

"Let him in," he said to the cupbearer, "and leave us."

As the man entered and took off his ragged cloak, Tyrion thought it was possible to recognize Jaime only because he knew him so well. His brother had darkened his hair and beard, and the latter was coarse and unkempt and covered half of his face.

"I believe congratulations are in order for you and my good-sister," said Jaime, looking at Sansa's rounded belly.

"Keep your voice down, you idiot," hissed Tyrion, "how come you happen to be here, where all are loyal to the queen? Have you taken leave of your senses?"

"You lied to me," his brother's voice was stern.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You didn't kill Joff. I know that now."

"I said that to spite you. It was ill-done. Mind you, I'm still not sorry he'd died."

Jaime sank onto his knees before his brother. "Tyrion, I know I will never get royal pardon, but I wanted to ask for yours before I leave Westeros forever."

"Where would you go?" asked Tyrion. Jaime merely shrugged.

"I don't know yet. One thing is certain, this will be the last you see of me here. I will be sailing out of White Harbor upon the morrow. Will you forgive me, Tyrion? I know now what I did was foul, I let our father manipulate me, I never should have said Tysha was –"

"Stop," Tyrion said abruptly, "I know. There is no need to –"

The brothers embraced, and when they broke off, Jaime was struggling for breath and Tyrion's eyes were rather red.

"Farewell, brother," said Tyrion.

Jaime only nodded before closing the door behind him, and as he did, Tyrion knew he left their life forever.


	13. A lion is born

Much work had been done in Winterfell prior to their arrival, but it was not nearly enough, and only one wing of the castle was rebuilt and fit for habitation when they came.

"This is not Casterly Rock," Sansa said apologetically.

"No matter," Tyrion said gently, "here is all I ever wanted and more," he placed a tender hand on the swell of her belly.

Arya, on the other hand, was growing restless. "When will Jon come?" she asked every single day without fail.

"I sent a bird to the Wall the first morning after we arrived," Tyrion said for the fifteenth time, "I got no reply from Jon, but this is not to be wondered at, given how things stand at Castle Black right now."

Then Arya looked down from the tower where the three of them were standing, observing the northern woods, and gave a startled jump:

"Look! Look! Riders from the north!"

Indeed, a column of men was advancing towards Winterfell, three of them in the blacks of the Night's Watch.

"It is Jon!" Arya cried out in exhilaration.

"That's not very likely," Sansa said in more sedate tones, "Jon is Lord Commander now, he would be too busy to come so soon…"

"It _is_ Jon!" insisted Arya. "I know it is! It must be him, look, there is Ghost, and – and – "

Her voice faltered.

"Summer," said Sansa very quietly, "and Shaggydog."

Without wasting one more second, Arya bounded downstairs. Tyrion limped after her to his best ability while supporting his pregnant wife.

When they reached the yard, Arya was hanging about Jon's neck, hugging him one-armed. Her other arm was keeping a firm grip on a little boy. Another boy was gently set upon the ground by a silent giant Sansa remembered well from her father's stables.

She was squeezing Tyrion's hand so hard he felt his fingers go numb.

"Bran," she whispered incredulously, "Rickon!" her voice was raised now, and it carried all over the yard.

In another second, all the Stark children were hugging, kissing, laughing, crying and saying words no one could make out in the excited noise. Jon and Tyrion stood aside, watching and smiling.

"My good-brother," Tyrion stretched out a hand, "I suppose all this makes a long and interesting story."

"Too long and too interesting to tell while standing here, in this frozen courtyard," responded Jon.

… "You will wear a trail in the carpet," warned Arya.

"It has been too long," Tyrion said impatiently.

"This is her first," his good-sister reminded him, "it often takes long." Yet Tyrion wasn't reassured. His own mother had died while bringing him into this world, and he knew not health, nor strength, nor good hips, nor prior successful births were any guarantee to safe outcome.

But then the maester's steps were heard, and Tyrion turned towards him, pale as a ghost. The smile on the man's face told it all. He mopped sweat from his brow.

"My lord," said the master, "accept my sincerest congratulations. The lady has just been delivered of a healthy, strong boy."

Arya gave an oddly muffled exclamation of joy, something between a shriek and a sob. Tyrion, meanwhile, wasted no time in going to his wife, whom he found propped up on pillows in their bed, pale and with dark shadows under her eyes, but beaming. When she saw him, she said nothing, but merely beckoned him to come closer and offered him the bundle of blankets she was cradling in her arms.

"Oh, no," Tyrion shook his head, "I wouldn't – I don't know how –"

"Don't be silly," said Sansa with a smile, "just hold him firmly. Like this, yes."

Tyrion stared down at his son. The babe was fast asleep, full of warm mother's milk. His head was a mop of golden curls, but there was also something of a Stark in his features.

"How shall we name him?" he asked hoarsely, blinking back tears of joy.

"This is our firstborn," said Sansa, "you shall name him, Tyrion."

"You endured a day and a half of labor. You shall choose the name," insisted Tyrion.

"Whatever name you pick is fine with me," said Sansa, "we are one. One flesh, one heart, one soul, remember?"

"Eddard," said Tyrion, and the look upon his wife's face spoke volumes, "his name is Eddard."

Eddard Lannister, he mused. With the Lannister wits and the honor of Stark, he would surely grow up to be a great man.

T h e E n d

A/N: Sequel is already written and is waiting to be edited.


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